bulletproof
by wild-and-whirling-words
Summary: Set against the backdrop of the Second World War, Jim Moriarty's network in entangled in European politics. He has spies in Germany and Russia and is selling and exploiting British intelligence. There is money to be made from war - but it is a dangerous business. Sebastian Moran, the loyal ex-soldier, knows this better than most but still he is persuaded to enter the fray once more


**bulletproof **

**1938**

"Oh, look at the state of you!" Mrs Halifax shrieked, hand flying to her heart, "Mr Moran…my poor nerves! What on earth has happened to you? Should I call an ambulance?" Sebastian laughed.

"I shouldn't trouble yourself, Mrs Halifax, not on my account." The landlady laughed with him, although it was an undoubtedly nervous sound.

"Who…?" she ventured delicately, "Did you get into a scrap? I know what you young men are like these days…" Sebastian looked down at himself; his white shirt was stained crimson, he had blood spatters on his neck, above his collar, and on his forearms where his sleeves had been rolled up. His hands had been worse but he'd scoured those under a pump before returning. Some scrap, more like a massacre. Thankfully, it had not quite reached that stage; the other man should have been quicker.

"I'm afraid not," he grimaced. "All work and no play today, more's the shame."

"Work?" Mrs Halifax queried tremulously, "What…what do you do again, Mr Moran?" Sebastian let his gaze wander idly around the hallway. Jim was lingering at the foot of the stairs, a smirk playing about his lips. His eyes glittered, urging him to find a plausible answer. Something about his demeanour was mocking, suggesting that he would not do it.

"I'm a butcher, ma'am." He caught Jim's eye and suppressed a laugh. The landlady smiled too, her relief palpable.

"Of course you are, dear. Now…you go and get washed up. I'll put the kettle on."

"_I'm a butcher, ma'am…"_ quickly became their little joke.

"Job done, Sebastian?" Sebastian hung up his cap and his jacket with a grin.

"Job done, boss." From his seat in his armchair, one leg crossed sharply over the other so that his left ankle rested atop his right knee, Jim's eyes raked over him lazily, appreciatively even.

"Doesn't look like it was clean." Sebastian chuckled darkly in response.

"It wasn't."

"_Tut tut,"_ his boss admonished, "A man of your profession, I would have expected a little more…_finesse_…"

"From a butcher?" Sebastian deadpanned and Jim could not help but laugh, cup of tea held to his lips. Delicately he set it back down on its saucer and sat forward, his lips pulled back in a predatory expression that was all business.

"Yes, well, this next job I have for you might require a little more discretion."

Sebastian leant languidly against the door frame, rubbing at his chin. "And what job might that be?"

"Easy, tiger…" Those dark eyes took him in again, top to toe, before he was dismissed with a flick of Jim's fingers, "Go and get cleaned up first. Besides, I'm still waiting on-"

"-Mr Moriarty, a telegram for you." Mrs Halifax bustled in with the note on a silver tray.

"_-Ah." _Jim plucked it up without thanks and devoured its contents with a hungry expression, tongue darting out to wet his lip. "Just the thing I was hoping for. What are you still doing here?"

It was unclear who this was addressed to and both bystanders took a step back at the intensity in his glare. The landlady scuttled back to her pantry, looking affronted but Sebastian hesitated a moment longer.

"…Boss?"

"Not now," Jim's eyes were scanning over the paper in his hand again and again, smirk widening at the corners of his lips, but when he spoke, his voice was harsh. "I've got some calls to make. Get yourself cleaned up."

An afterthought stopped Sebastian at halfway up the stairs. "And you'll need to pack a bag."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"No, I'm not going to bloody Germany. Christ's sake, Jim. _Germany?_ Have you not heard what's been happening?" The two men stood face to face, noses almost touching and Jim could feel Sebastian's breath, coming in short, sharp pants, against the skin of his neck.

"You're not in a position to say 'no', Moran. I give the orders." His tone was calm and matter of fact, but the hand tapping unceasingly against his thigh betrayed agitation. "_Of course_ I know what's _happening_…" What did Sebastian take him for, a moron? "That's why I need you there…I have an important deal that simply _must_ go through."

"The arms shipment?" Jim nodded, one hand creeping up to hold his face.

"Yes, yes…" he sighed impatiently, turning his back and pacing restlessly away. "What else?" He paused at the window, elbows leaning on the sill, to look out at the cobbled street spread below them.

"You're going to arm Hitler?" Sebastian clarified and Jim whirled round.

"Yes, Moran." That voice again, as if Sebastian was being slow. "And you are going to help me." An argument hovered on the tip of Sebastian's tongue and Jim smiled, a cold expression that did not reach his eyes. "And if you refuse…" he hissed, leaning in close again, "I shall send you to Germany anyway, but not all in one piece." A shiver ran down Sebastian's spine.

"You could get hanged for this, Jim. And me with you." Jim laughed darkly.

"Then you'd better make it more discreet." His eyes lingered on a bloodstain that Sebastian had been unable to scrub away, just below his left ear.

"But-"

"-This is a queer time for you to develop morals, Sebastian…It's just another job."

"This isn't about morality; this is about treason." The laugh echoed again.

"Treason," Jim scoffed. "Her Majesty's Army trained you well. But you serve me now, and I have a job for you to do." Sebastian let out a long sigh between his teeth and looked up, eyes hard, mouth set in a thin frown.

"Yes, boss."


End file.
